Cobblestones

It was a very quiet evening. He could not believe the size of the cobblestones on the ground. He never took the time to look at them before. Some were the size of his hand. He wondered whether they had a different name. After almost twenty minutes of careful inspection, he came to the conclusion that cobblestones were not very interesting materials. He was growing impatient, it was at most 10-minute walk from her home, how could she be so late? Well, she was getting older, perhaps she was slowing down? 

When she appeared 10 minutes later, he was certain he was going to go mad from boredom. As she approached, he could see that she was very shaken and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. She gave him his weekly ‘allowance’ as she liked to call it. He counted the money, while she stood there without a word, almost like a statue. The silence was piercing his ears, drumming and filling the small, narrow, cobblestone-paved street. ‘What is it?’ A very small and troublesome question. She was very careful with her every move, and her small brown eyes, they avoided his with determination. Her eyes were slightly red, veins showing like a distant rainstorm. She stood there for a while, he was almost sure of the news he would receive. 'You can come to the house next week. I have no need of hiding this any longer’ she said. There it was ' your father has passed away last Wednesday. Heart-attack.’ As straight as a needle piercing all the way to the bone, she stood. ‘You can come by to get the money. But you can not stay.’ I can not bear to see your face, he completed. She was way too righteous to say, but who was he to deny? Some of her words were teary, others accusing. Of what, well he could guess. His mother was gone before he could say anything. Was she really sad for the man, or herself? Being a widow was not easy, especially now. 

It was a peaceful evening, even the mice were not fighting. He was not sad, of that he was sure. Now with the old man gone, how delicious was the world once again. He wondered whether his grandparents realized what kind of a fool they brought to the world. Her mother did see her husband for all he was. All her years wasted on the struggles of two men in her life. Immovable and unchanging as the winds of their shores. She always tried to be the peacemaker but to no avail. It was a well-known fact that his father was an angry man. He spent his days red in the face, yelling away to every slight change. And with him eating like a crazed dog, it was no surprise he found the way to hell the way he did. A heart attack. He was rotten from within. It was his own poison that killed him. His anger. 

He was always sure that he would die the same way. After all, he was the same. He would suck the life out of every room he has ever entered. Even the doors in his house would be afraid to creak. Dull eyed wife and half-broken children. He thanked God his sister was the broken part. He was the crazed dog between the two of them. It was probably a good thing he was not married. He would have been if his fiancée didn’t suddenly take ill. Fragile girl. Dull eyed and fragile. Her father was good friends with his old man. As good as soulless maniacs could be anyway. He had mixed feelings about the girl, as he had them about her sudden death. He could probably get married but why bother? That question defined his life.

He was walking back to his hotel. He lived here for many months now. Perhaps with his inheritance, he could go away. To do what? His life consisted of getting drunk on the pubs and gambling his mother’s money away. Perhaps he could gamble some of her husband’s. Would he even get any share of it? If the man had any chance to write a will of some sort, he surely wouldn’t get a penny. His family was not rich, the money would last him a few months. But it was better than running errands for the big city kids so that they would give him the change in their pockets. 

He thought of his sister, she became another dull-eyed like his mother. His mother was at least fond of her. She was nothing like her father. She would weep and grieve for that man like any dutiful daughter would but he knew that she will be glad. She would never acknowledge it, but deep down her prayers for his soul would be mixed with her thanks to God for taking that foul man away. Well, she had another one at home anyway. Fates of mothers are mirrored in those of their daughters. 

His mother. He was certain that he was the reason he didn’t have any younger siblings. His mother could not bear to look after another like him. She would never say it, just like she avoided saying many of the things she felt, but after all these years, she was an open book to him. Her gaze would tell him she would rather die at childbirth than seeing him, a reflection of her husband walking and making his mark at the world. What a mark it was. A scorched wall is marked too but in a different way. Maybe she hoped, he thought, he would become more like her, or her fiancé. A dream of a better, kinder, different future. Her dreams were shattered when he was called away, ripped from her young arms. When his letter suddenly ceased, she knew. Her husband was chosen for her this time, well she certainly couldn’t be trusted, she was wracked with grief. She couldn’t make it on her own, even she knew it. Her future was too fat to be enlisted. He could barely breathe after a flight of stairs. A fat, angry, red future, full of fists and scared children.

The pub was buzzing with energy as he passed it. He could feel familiar eyes following his steps. He was no longer welcome there, the fought way too many times to be allowed back. Last week was the final straw. His last opponent and his lackeys were still welcome apparently. They stopped drinking as he passed by, his boxing partner still looked rather poofy around the eyes. He felt smug as his marks were still visible on his face. He was taking his time passing the pub, the other watched him with steel eyes. Buzz of the pub cut short, he was the honorable guest. He kept walking and entered a narrow street, the closest way to his hotel. It was cobblestones once again. On a quiet night, what a sound they make under his spent shoes. A sickening crack. Around the delicate matter of his person and knowledge, a very sharp pain took away his vision. Tumbled on the floor. Cobblestone was the size of his hand. A week-old fight finally settled.